


True Courage & Cowardice

by arminblossom (syrren)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Dark!Marco, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 11:33:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrren/pseuds/arminblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say ignorance is bliss, and while this is true for Marco at first, as more is discovered he starts to feel the exact opposite. There is no bliss in the awareness that Jean is now placing himself in peril while Marco has no clue on why. After trying to keep silent of what he knows, Marco finally comes forward to confront Jean, though for someone who is supposed to be dead, that might not have been the wisest move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True Courage & Cowardice

**Author's Note:**

> [A very lovely Tumblrite](http://sophillawollhead.tumblr.com) requested a dark!Marco fic so here's the first chapter. I'm not sure how long its going to be, but considering how much I have plotted, this is actually going to get quite a few chapters. It has a lot of flashbacks and unanswered questions but that'll be explained in time, it all has a purpose.  
>  So enjoy the work and thank you for reading! Feel free to leave any feedback and if you have any requests for a drabble my Tumblr account is [here](http://szyntera.tumblr.com/).

_In visions of the dark night_

_I have dreamed of joy departed—_

_But a waking dream of life and light_

_Hath left me broken-hearted._

 

_Ah! what is not a dream by day_

_To him whose eyes are cast_

_On things around him with a ray_

_Turned back upon the past?_

 - "A Dream" by Edgar Allan Poe

 

              Dusting off his vest, Jean stood up after climbing the steep rock path and looked around. The sun was dipping below the horizon behind him, scarring the sky with rosy pink and pale orange before tapering off into the usual deep blue. Overhead white points of stars pierced the earth's veil, early to their responsibility of illuminating the world. Low in the watery canopy, the grey moon climbed towards the position of midnight, translucent as patches of blue were still visible through it. And before Jean, there spread a land shrouded in shadows, looming threats to his clear path noticeable only as dark apparitions against the lighter background. Towering on both sides and farther in front of him was a forest, heavy branches creaking and leaves dancing in the zephyr that chilled his skin.

                But it was the lake that he was here to visit, a lake that only fools would not appreciate for its beauty. Unfolding feathery white edges along the banks, it swept away the trees so that it may expand its borders and impede on most of the beholder's attention. Tranquil blue waves rippled, outlining the margins of the banks, and gently reminding that even the water still had life in this destructive world. Yet the bottom of the lake was not to be seen, nor the water itself if one didn't look carefully enough, for at the moment it acted as a mirror, reflecting the dark blue of the sky and the bright stars and the striving moon. The water undisturbed, the lake looked no longer simple as it did in the day, but instead a sky in reach, an opportunity to grasp what human hands could not before attain.

                Of course, these observations did not belong to Jean; no, they were thought by another present at the time. Kicking up pebbles and showers of damp dirt, Jean found his way down to the lake, stopping in his tracks just at the border between land and lake. Frowning, he pushed his hands further in his pockets and thus farther from the cold, and regarded the shallow water.

                "At least it’s quiet here," Jean muttered to himself, guiding a smooth rock into the lake with the toe of his boot.

                When he had left the boys' barracks earlier he had had only one thought in mind: to get away from the noise. Jean was one to socialize, no mistake, but even he needed some time alone with just his thoughts. Desperate for solitude, his feet had led him to the lake just beyond the camp, though he had no idea what he was expecting. Now that he was here, his mind had fallen blank, and with no other preoccupation, he grew bored easily, quickly beginning to contemplate if he should leave.

                "No, I just got here," he sighed, taking a few steps back to see if he could find a suitable place to sit down.

                "I-is someone there?" a timid voice asked, causing Jean to jump. Pivoting on his heel, he turned to see a tall boy step from the shadows of the forest, no more than ten feet from Jean. In his hand he held a lantern, the flame inside it starting to burn out, but it was just enough light to discern his short brunet hair and large brown eyes.

                "Yeah, what's your name? You look familiar," Jean deadpanned, shifting his weight from one foot to another. Wary of the larger boy, he stayed away until he could figure out where the brunet was from.

                "I'm Marco Bodt, remember? I was there last night when you almost got into a fight with Jaeger," the brunet answered calmly, holding the lantern aloft as he stepped forward. With the brunet now closer, Jean could make out a light dusting of freckles along his flushed cheeks and the serenity and care in his dark eyes. Concluding that this Marco guy was harmless, Jean stepped forward, just inside the flickering border of candlelight.

                "I'm Jean, Jean Kirschtein," he said roughly, choosing to ignore the mention of Eren. "What are you doing here anyway?"

                "Trying to get away from the others. It’s too loud in the barracks to write, and there is no other better place to write than in one of beauty. You?"

                "Same, only without the writing part. Writing a letter back to your family, I presume?" It was no secret that a few of the other trainees were diligent in sending letters back to their relatives, Jean had certainly been no exception with his mother, and for all he knew, Marco had the same situation.

                "Ah, no, I wrote them last night when I came here actually," the brunet laughed, attempting to steer clear of the question of what he was writing.

                "So you came here last night, too? Don't you sleep?"

                "That's for the rest of the week. As long as I can have a couple of nights devoted to my writing I'll be fine."

                "What are you writing then?"

                Marco sighed quietly and rubbed the back of his neck. He was proud of his work, no doubt, but he was a bit reluctant to share his greatest treasure with a complete stranger. His answer to the problem: "Sorry, I left my notepad back where I was sitting in the forest."

                Jean shrugged, not really caring. He wanted to get to know the brunet boy a bit better, especially since he seemed like a potential friend, but there was no way he was going to seem obtrusive or obsessive over him.

                "The lake, it looks like part of the sky decided to grace our presence," Marco observed, looking past Jean with wide eyes. Inching closer, the shorter boy watched as the brunet stared at the water shimmering with twinkling stars, as if it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. His unease had melted away, leaving him in an even more vulnerable state: one that gave away his desires and interests. And Jean knew instantly that Marco had a soul wrought of beauty and eternally in search of beauty, a soul that he knew he wanted by his side.

                "Maybe we can be friends and someday you'll show me your writing," Jean suggested, his voice far shyer than he meant it to be.

* * *

 

                His disappearance had happened too late, and Jean hadn't noticed until a while afterwards, hadn't noticed until the street was paved with corpses, and Marco's was one of them. Cobblestones protruded from their imprint on the ground, torn up by battles that were caused by Eren's titan form. Blood splattered the roads, walls, everything it could stain, and only the blood of their enemies had evaporated.

                A horrific grimace disgraced his usually joyful features, what little left of his lips cast downwards. Ash was sprinkled across his cheeks, dulling his iconic freckles and blending into his pale face that no longer held a healthy blush. All life and happiness, pain and anger, tranquility and awe, was drained from his dark eyes, leaving behind only a cold and distant stare.

                Golden eyes widening and his stomach churning, attempting to make him sick, Jean froze. There was no amount of self-control that could reprimand him into tearing his gaze from Marco's rotting corpse. His feet seemingly stuck to the ground and the air suffocating him, he stood there, in shock.

                "Marco, is that you?" Jean managed to choke out, his breath hitching in his throat. Behind him, the nurse was prodding the golden eyed boy for answers, but at the moment all he was capable of was thinking back to all the times he had seen Marco alive and well, like when they first met. Compared to those lively images, this Marco seemed like a poorly made copy of him, lacking of all the basic human characteristics Marco possessed, and oh so much more.

                No, this corpse was not his best friend in that sense, not the boy he had come to love dearly. It was but the shell, while the real Marco was long gone with no hopes of returning.

                And this broke Jean's heart.

* * *

 

                And that broke Marco's heart.

                "Why did you make me watch this?" he whispered, voice hollow after witnessing Jean.

                "Because you'd never believe us if we told you that Jean really believed that you were dead," Annie explained simply. Reiner pulled Marco away from the shattered window, leading him and the two others towards the back of the building.

                Bertholdt placed long nimble fingers over his white handkerchief that the cleanup crew was using as masks then paused, turning back to the shorter brunet. "We can't be kept away any longer. You remember your job, right?"

                Marco nodded sullenly.

                "You better. If you fail we'll have no other choice, Marco. You're a good guy, but we need some help and you're the best option," Reiner added.

                "Right, some things don't go as you want them and you just have to accept that," Marco laughed quietly, his voice heavy with hopelessness and depression. He snuck one more glance out of the window only to find Jean and the nurse gone.

                The blond nodded and donned his handkerchief, the other two following suit. Marco slipped one Bertholdt had handed him over his head and tapped his gear as if to make sure it was still there.

                The three exited before him; walking ahead a ways before giving him the signal to continue as there was no one around. Slipping into the shadows of the buildings, he followed the trio towards the wall, holding his breath in fear that Jean might catch him the entire way there. Once more they waited, only giving him the signal to come forward when it was assured that no one who would recognise them was around. Nodding to him, Reiner took the lead and scaled the wall, Bertholdt and Annie not making a move until Marco was safely on his way after the blond.

                "Accommodations aren't the best, and you're going to have to make due, but you have the map to where my father and I used to live and you should have enough money for a while. Now go, before anyone sees you," Annie urged, waving him away. Marco gave a terse nod and descended the other side of the wall, quickly disappearing along the path to the abandoned house and solitude.

                "How ironic, all I ever wanted in camp was peace and quiet, and now I shall get all of the solitude I want, and it terrifies me," he thought to himself.

* * *

 

                "Hey, Marco, do you want to go up to the lake tonight? I have a feeling the guys don't actually know how to shut up and we haven't been there in a while," Jean suggested, taking a swig of Luke warm water from his cup.

                "Oh, sure, Jean. Do you mind if I take my notepad? I started a really good poem in my head today and I need to finish it before I forget," the brunet asked, smiling.

                The golden eyed boy shrugged, "Whatever you want. Will I finally be able to see your poems or whatever?"

                Marco paused, reconsidering his previous hesitance to show Jean his writing. His natural instincts warned him that only terrible effects could rise from showing his friend his work, that he would mock Marco and tell him his writing was void of any talent or emotion. But it was his logic that won out, for any rational being could figure out that Jean was in no hurry to inflict pain upon the brunet; if anything, he just wanted to make Marco happy.

                "Yeah, all right," Marco agreed, his voice flat.

                "Come on, Marco, lighten up. If you write half as well as you speak, I wouldn't believe a soul could hate your writing," Jean scoffed.

                The brunet grinned, whole-heartedly believing Jean. He sprinted back to the barracks to fetch his notepad and together the two found their way back up to the lake in the winter night's cold. A bright flame trembled in their lantern, adequately fueled so that it would not die out as it had done on their first meeting. Heavy cloaks hung off their shoulders, their arms wrapped around their torsos in an effort to make the warm material cling to their skin with little luck. His notepad tucked under his arm, Marco pulled Jean closer, attempting to warm the boy when he was trembling so noticeably.

                Upon reaching the top, the two found the lake untainted, in almost the exact same condition as they left it months before. His fingers still wrapped about the golden eyed boy's arm, Marco took a step forward, his dark eyes widening. Jean gave a sidelong glance at Marco to find him exuding bliss, from the easy smile that graced his rosy lips to the childish excitement that filled his eyes to the brim. The boy was even leaning forward, trying to memorize every aspect of the lake, from the even ripples to the white stars dotting its surface in a mirror perfect reflection.

                And the same easy smile tugged on Jean's paler lips, and the same joy and bliss gleamed in his liquid golden eyes. His head tilted to the side as he leaned forward, his gaze drinking in every feature of Marco's face, though that wasn't something the brunet was aware of exactly. The shorter boy's breath hitched in his throat pleasantly, his heart fluttering as he grew aware of the love he had for the boy before him. A blush spreading across his cheeks, Jean took one last long look at the brunet before pulling away, careful to remember that image so that it may never fade from his memory.

                "Oh! I should probably write that poem down," Marco mused, breaking free of his reverie. He led Jean up the banks and into the shelter of the towering trees. Just on the edge of the forest, Marco sat and leaned up against a smooth trunk, patting the spot next to him and looking up at his friend. Clearing away some of the pebbles with the sole of his shoe, he perched next to Marco and placed the lantern beside the brunet.

                The scribbling of a pen on paper echoed in the air, merely a pleasant side effect of writing to Marco, but a lullaby to Jean. Weary after a rather long day, the golden-eyed boy scooted closer to the brunet and rested his head on the other's shoulder, dozing off to the comforting warmth of Marco's presence and the rhythmic scratches of the pen.

                "Jean, before I lose you completely, listen to this really quick," Marco whispered, pulling the boy from his slumber. Humming in response, Jean willed his eyes open and nodded his head for the other to begin.

                _A starlight lit path - with only thin remnants_

_Of the memory of a plight that viciously grasps man's fate -_

_Quiet threats that still haunt our nights, and days filled with_

_The sombre knowledge that there is indeed hope._

_Countless losses, and safety still exists_

_In the heart of our very land, where the great decision makers rest._

_But what does this matter to me anymore -_

_Who has found a friend more precious than my own blood?_

_Eyes the colour of liquid gold and a heart of true courage -_

_I'd rather die alone_

_Then see him die of want and hunger._

                Silence.

                Jean sat up slowly; an awareness of what all Marco had just said seeping deeper into his consciousness. Clamping a hand over his mouth, he pulled himself to his feet, trying to fully connect what all the brunet was pledging. After a moment, he slid the notepad from Marco's fingers and slipped his own arms around the boy.

                "Marco, never die for me. Out of the two of us you're the greater and I could never imagine you--" His voice caught in his throat, a hot blush staining his cheeks.

                "Wait, calm down, Jean, it’s all right," Marco soothed. "You really must be tired. I'm just saying, I want us both to make it to the Military Police, and I'll serve the king and you'll be safe. We'll be safe. And I'd do anything to protect you. You can't get upset over it when you'd do the exact same thing for me, right?"

                The shorter boy pulled away for a second, then nodded. "Well, yeah, we're best friends. But it’s not like we'd ever face a situation where defending each other is necessary if we're both safe."

                "Exactly. So there's nothing to worry about," Marco affirmed, smiling at Jean. He reconsidered the poem for a second before grinning back at the brunet.

* * *

 

                "So that's it, huh? That's exactly what happened. You died alone. The only difference between your poem and now is that I took a different path. I hope you're not too upset that I'm risking my life, but I figure, I'll join you all that much faster and I'll die with dignity."

                A lot had happened since Marco's death, and yet the brunet was all he could ever dream about. He was either reliving seeing Marco's corpse, fabricating the scene of how Marco died, or constructing a future where he and all of his current comrades perish in the same way the brunet did: alone and without a proper memory to his name.

                The next mission, the first mission in which they would be outside the walls, was just around the corner. Next to the nightmares he faced in the dead of night, Jean figured there was little to worry about.

* * *

 

                "Tch, I can't believe I let Jean believe I'm dead. He probably thinks I'm some great person now for dying during that mess, when I'm a coward. He'd be so disappointed. I wouldn't blame him if he hated me, if he never forgave me."

                Marco sighed and slumped in his chair at the table. The day he was forced and aided in faking his own death replayed in his mind often, though it was Jean's reaction that haunted him. It still amazed him that the trio was so thorough in tricking others into thinking it was Marco who had perished. Only those with a talent at deceiving people could fool _Jean_ into believing the corpse present was his own best friend.

                As the days passed, silent and with no means of contact to anyone familiar, the brunet's mind raced with fear and paranoia. A fair amount of paper was scattered across the table, stained in ink adequately enough, but the words written were nothing compared to the great sonnets he had written before. Now there were only dull eulogies, void of spirit and injected with a grief beyond measure. They told of a soul troubled, longing for another that meant the world and in constant fear of never returning to them. They told of a man who had taken a coward's path, at least in his own eyes, and was risking his own liberty for another breath of air, a notion not comparable to life.

                That is to say, Marco was indeed in way of danger, and there is no mistaking the fact that he was caged. He couldn't return home or to the military, there was no place for him to run to, and so he was trapped within the confines Annie had provided him. His liberty had dwindled quickly, and he had signed it away willingly just to keep his heart beating. Should the trio beckon, he would come; should they request help, he would carry out the deed; should they tell him he was useless at the moment, he would stand by until he was needed; and if he was too much for them and no longer of use, he would stand still as they halted his breath and heart, because there was nowhere he could run.

                It was only with fortune that they needed him, for that _is_ why he was pulled aside in the first place. A letter addressed from Bertholdt had been carried to him just days before, briefing him on the upcoming mission outside the walls and of their part in it. It was through subtle hints that Annie's position was revealed to him, and what he was to accomplish for them.

                A chance to leave his prison was all Marco needed to know, for he did fear he would lose whatever emotion he had left if he stayed on any longer. There comes to be a point in which the pain and depression one drowns in becomes so strong and suffocating that they cease to truly be aware of it, and their entire being becomes numb. The days grow shorter as one carries out the essential processes to keep living, perhaps another odd job here or there, and nothing else, for the vivid consciousness of the living is no longer ascertained. But the nights do grow longer, in the wake of him who fears for his life and longs for the person he loves, for nightmares, grief, and scarring awareness of all he has done haunts him in his nightmares. The only salvation is that by the next morning, he is numb once more, bound to repeat the cycle until solace finds him and bandages his wounds.

                Though he was not aware of it, his captors _were_ in some ways caring, for they protected him from more pain. Letters from the trio did arrive at times, informing Marco of their next move and ensuring that he was well. But never did they state the path Jean had chosen, nor did they mention his name. As far as Marco was concerned, his best friend had joined the Military Police with Annie and was safe and far away from the peril he would be facing soon. And as they say, ignorance is bliss; as much bliss the brunet was able to salvage anyway.

                "Oi, Marco, hurry up. It’s time to go," the blonde girl called from the doorway, face blank. A dark cloak adorned her thin shoulders and she handed a similar one to Marco.

                The brunet was already dressed in white pants, an orange hoodie, and boots. Annie had given him the harness and gear earlier when she first arrived. He had asked her where she had gotten it all, but he couldn't get beyond "I got it from the underground; they have a lot of black market deals there." Not wanting to jeopardize his place, he tried to get into the straps as quickly as he could, his trembling fingers forcing him to take far longer than he used to. When he did finally finish, he stood there quietly for a moment, rather forlornly, catatonic, as his orders for this mission came back to him and reminded him of the gruesome deed he was to commit, until the blonde had knocked on the door impatiently. Grimacing, he shuffled through the clothing she had given him.

                "A Scouting Legion uniform? How were you able to get _this_ from the black market?"

                "I told you, they have a lot of things for sale. Anything to make a quick buck. Now come on," Annie insisted, shutting the door behind him. "It’s a while until we get to the outside, but we should be able to get outside the walls before them. Just make sure you do everything you can to make Eren defenseless, I doubt you can fail in that."

* * *

 

                "I wonder how Marco's mum is doing," Jean mused absent-mindedly a couple of days before the mission.

                "What makes you wonder that?" Armin questioned, looking over at the taller boy. He knew Jean was grieving over the brunet, but to be still so out of it right before an important event seemed a bit alarming to the blond.

                "Just thinking about when I visited her," he sighed.

                "Wait, wait, when did this happen?"

                "After we were done clearing away the corpses, we had to inform the families of what happened. Most of the names were just placed on a list, tacked up on some board somewhere, but I requested to tell Marco's family in person. They let me, my job was done so what use would they have of keeping me?"

                "You never told me you visited his family." Armin sat up in his bed, alert over the details of the friend he had lost, too.

                "Because there wasn't much to say. What? You wanted me to tell you all about how she broke into tears? How his father couldn't console her? How his little sister couldn't say a word, just looked at me like Marco used to?"

                Armin looked away quickly, realising that there was no more on the subject for Jean to say. There was no telling what he was hoping for when it came to news of Marco, he just wanted some good word for once, he figured.

                                Jean nodded and stared up at the ceiling, closing his eyes so as to signal that the conversation was over. Marco's family wasn't exactly a memory he liked to bring up while sifting through his thoughts, but since he was stuck in the category of his friend's death, he might as well pick the one about one percent less painful than the one of actually *seeing* his corpse.

                For whatever the reason the day had been warm, the sky above crystal blue. Children's laughter rang through the streets as they raced about, while his boots somberly clicked against the stone pavement. Trying to hold his head high, he knocked on the door belonging to the Bodt family and waited.

                "Marco?" a woman had asked, short and with a splatter of freckles covering her pale face. She looked searchingly at Jean, trying to find good news but meeting only the bad. Jean had shaken his head to her quandary, trying to keep his voice steady as he relayed the news and added a compliment about her son. And the father had heard and held his wife as she fell to her knees, and the little sister had only stared at Jean with wide eyes, probably not comprehending what had happened. And Jean had clamped a hand over his mouth because he was a soldier and not supposed to show emotion, regretting every hot tear that streamed down his cheek and dried along his fingers.

                The family's grief would always trouble him, yet more importantly, that was the day the golden eyed boy realised that Marco, the person he loved out of all, was gone.

                "He's dead. Marco's really dead," he whispered to himself, repeating a statement he had been trying to realise for days, and disregarding Armin's sleeping form not far from him.

                "He's not coming back."


End file.
